Musashi: Bushido Code (30 page)

Despite Musashi's instructions to go away, he couldn't leave. The place where he had finally chosen to sit, his hat and his mask beside him, was a knoll from which he could see the scene around the bonfire in the distance.

"Hachiman! Kompira! God of Kasuga Shrine! Look! My master is walking directly into the enemy. Oh, gods of heaven, protect him. He isn't himself. He's usually mild and gentle, but he's been a little bit strange ever since this morning. He must be crazy, or else he wouldn't take on that many at once! Oh, please, please, help him!"

After calling on the deities a hundred times or more, he noticed no visible results of his efforts and started getting angry. Finally, he was shouting: "Aren't there any gods in this land? Are you going to let the wicked people win, and the good man be killed? If you do that, then everything they've always told me about right and wrong is a lie! You can't let him be killed! If you do, I'll spit on you!"

When he saw that Musashi was surrounded, his invocations turned to curses, directed not only at the enemy but at the gods themselves. Then, realizing that the blood being spilled on the plain was not his teacher's, he abruptly changed his tune. "Look! My master's not a weakling after all! He's beating them!"

This was the first time Jōtarō had ever witnessed men fighting like beasts to the death, the first time he had ever seen so much blood. He began to feel that he was down there in the middle of it, himself smeared with gore. His heart turned somersaults, he felt giddy and light-headed.

"Look at him! I told you he could do it! What an attack! And look at those silly priests, lined up like a bunch of cawing crows, afraid to take a step!"

But this last was premature, for as he spoke the priests of the Hōzōin began moving in on Musashi.

"Oh, oh! This looks bad. They're all attacking him at once. Musashi's in trouble!" Forgetting everything, out of his senses with anxiety, Jōtarō darted like a fireball toward the scene of impending disaster.

Abbot Inshun gave the command to charge, and in an instant, with a tremendous roar of voices, the lancers flew into action. Their glittering weapons whistled in the air as the priests scattered like bees sprung from a hive, shaved heads making them appear all the more barbaric.

The lances they carried were all different, with a wide variety of blades—the usual pointed, cone-shaped ones, others flat, cross-shaped or hooked—each priest using the type he favored most. Today they had a chance to see how the techniques they honed in practice worked in real battle.

As they fanned out, Musashi, expecting a trick attack, jumped back and stood on guard. Weary and a little dazed from the earlier bout, he gripped his sword handle tightly. It was sticky with gore, and a mixture of blood and sweat clouded his vision, but he was determined to die magnificently, if die he must.

To his amazement, the attack never came. Instead of making the anticipated lunges in his direction, the priests fell like mad dogs on their erstwhile allies, chasing down the rōnin who had fled and slashing at them mercilessly as they screamed in protest. The unsuspecting rōnin, futilely trying to direct the lancers toward Musashi, were slit, skewered, stabbed in the mouth, sliced in two, and otherwise slaughtered until not one of them was left alive. The massacre was as thorough as it was bloodthirsty.

Musashi could not believe his eyes. Why had the priests attacked their supporters? And why so viciously? He himself had only moments earlier been fighting like a wild animal; now he could hardly bear to watch the ferocity with which these men of the cloth slew the rōnin. Having been transformed for a time into a mindless beast, he was now restored to his normal state by the sight of others similarly transformed. The experience was sobering.

Then he became aware of a tugging at his arms and legs. Looking down, he found Jōtarō weeping tears of relief. For the first time, he relaxed.

As the battle ended, the abbot approached him, and in a polite, dignified manner, said, "You are Miyamoto, I assume. It is an honor to meet you." He was tall and of light complexion. Musashi was somewhat overcome by his appearance, as well as by his poise. With a certain amount of confusion, he wiped his sword clean and sheathed it, but for the moment words failed him.

"Let me introduce myself," continued the priest. "I am Inshun, abbot of the Hōzōin."

"So you are the master of the lance," said Musashi.

"I'm sorry I was away when you visited us recently. I'm also embarrassed that my disciple Agon put up such a poor fight."

Sorry about Agon's performance? Musashi felt that perhaps his ears needed cleaning. He remained silent for a moment, for before he could decide on a suitable way to respond to Inshun's courteous tone, he had to straighten out the confusion in his mind. He still couldn't figure out why the priests had turned on the rōnin—could imagine no possible explanation. He was even somewhat puzzled to find himself still alive.

"Come," said the abbot, "and wash off some of that blood. You need a rest." Inshun led him toward the fire, Jōtarō tagging along close behind.

The priests had torn a large cotton cloth into strips and were wiping their lances. Gradually they gathered by the fire, sitting down with Inshun and Musashi as though nothing unusual had occurred. They began chatting among themselves.

"Look, up there," said one, pointing upward.

"Ah, the crows have caught the whiff of blood. Cawing over the dead bodies, they are."

"Why don't they dig in?"

"They will, as soon as we leave. They'll be scrambling to get at the feast."

The grisly banter went on in this leisurely vein. Musashi got the impression that he wasn't going to find out anything unless he asked. He looked at In-shun and said, "You know, I thought you and your men had come here to attack me, and I'd made up my mind to take along as many of you as I could to the land of the dead. I can't understand why you're treating me this way."

Inshun laughed. "Well, we don't necessarily regard you as an ally, but our real purpose today was to do a little housecleaning."

"You call what's been going on housecleaning?"

"That's right," said Inshun, pointing toward the horizon. "But I think we might as well wait and let Nikkan explain it to you. I'm sure that speck on the edge of the plain is he."

At the same moment, on the other side of the plain, a horseman was saying to Nikkan, "You walk fast for your age, don't you?"

"I'm not fast. You're slow."

"You're nimbler than the horses."

"Why shouldn't I be? I'm a man."

The old priest, who alone was on foot, was pacing the horsemen as they advanced toward the smoke of the fire. The five riders with him were officials.

As the party approached, the priests whispered among themselves, "It's the Old Master." Having confirmed this, they fell back a good distance and lined themselves up ceremoniously, as for a sacred rite, to greet Nikkan and his entourage.

The first thing Nikkan said was, "Did you take care of everything?"

Inshun bowed and replied, "Just as you commanded." Then, turning to the officials, "Thank you for coming."

As the samurai jumped one by one off their horses, their leader replied, "It's no trouble. Thank
you
for doing the real work! ... Let's get on with it, men."

The officials went about inspecting the corpses and making a few notes; then their leader returned to where Inshun was standing. "We'll send people from the town to clean up the mess. Please feel free to leave everything as it is." With that, the five of them remounted their horses and rode off.

Nikkan let the priests know that they were no longer needed. Having bowed to him, they started walking away silently. Inshun, too, said good-bye to Nikkan and Musashi and took his leave.

As soon as the men were gone, there was a great cacophony. The crows descended, flapping their wings joyfully.

Grumbling over the noise, Nikkan walked over to Musashi's side and said casually, "Forgive me if I offended you the other day."

"Not at all. You were very kind. It is I who should thank you." Musashi knelt and bowed deeply before the old priest.

"Get off the ground," commanded Nikkan. "This field is no place for bowing."

Musashi got to his feet.

"Has the experience here taught you anything?" the priest asked. "I'm not even sure what happened. Can you tell me?"

"By all means," replied Nikkan. "Those officials who just left work under Okubo Nagayasu, who was recently sent to administer Nara. They're new to the district, and the rōnin have been taking advantage of their unfamiliarity with the place—waylaying innocent passersby, blackmailing, gambling, making off with the women, breaking into widows' houses—causing all sorts of trouble. The administrator's office couldn't bring them under control, but they did know that there were about fifteen ringleaders, including Dampachi and Yasukawa.

"This Dampachi and his cohorts took a disliking to you, as you know. Since they were afraid to attack you themselves, they concocted what they thought was a clever plan, whereby the priests of the Hōzōin would do it for them. The slanderous statements about the temple, attributed to you, were their work; so were the posters. They made sure everything was reported to me, presumably on the theory that I'm stupid."

Musashi's eyes laughed as he listened.

"I thought about it for a while," said the abbot, "and it occurred to me that this was an ideal opportunity to have a housecleaning in Nara. I spoke to Inshun about my plan, he agreed to undertake it, and now everybody's happy—the priests, the administrators; also the crows. Ha, ha!"

There was one other person who was supremely happy. Nikkan's story had wiped away all of Jōtarō's doubts and fears, and the boy was ecstatic. He began singing an improvised ditty while dancing about like a bird flapping its wings:

A housecleaning, oh,

A housecleaning!

At the sound of his unaffected voice, Musashi and Nikkan turned to watch him. He was wearing his mask with the curious smile and pointing his wooden sword at the scattered bodies. Taking an occasional swipe at the birds, he continued:

Yes, you crows,

Once in a while

There's a need for housecleaning,

But not only in Nara.

It's nature's way

To make everything new again.

So spring can rise from the ground,

We burn leaves,

We burn fields.

Sometimes we want snow to fall,

Sometimes we want a housecleaning.

Oh, you crows!

Feast away! What a spread!

Soup straight from the eye sockets,

And thick red sake.

But don't have too much

Or you'll surely get drunk.

"Come here, boy!" shouted Nikkan sharply.

"Yes, sir." Jōtarō stood still and turned to face the abbot.

"Stop acting the fool. Fetch me some rocks."

"This kind?" asked Jōtarō, snatching a stone that lay near his feet and holding it up.

"Yes, like that. Bring lots of them!"

"Yes, sir!"

As the boy gathered the stones, Nikkan sat down and wrote on each one "Namu Myōhō Renge-kyō," the sacred invocation of the Nichiren sect. Then he gave them back to the boy and ordered him to scatter them among the dead. While Jōtarō did this, Nikkan put his palms together and chanted a section of the Lotus Sutra.

When he had finished, he announced, "That should take care of them. Now you two can be on your way. I shall return to Nara." As abruptly as he had come, he departed, walking at his customary breakneck speed, before Musashi had a chance to thank him or make arrangements to see him again.

For a moment, Musashi just stared at the retreating figure, then suddenly he darted off to catch up with it. "Reverend priest!" he called. "Haven't you forgotten something?" He patted his sword as he said this.

"What?" asked Nikkan.

"You have given me no word of guidance, and since there is no way of knowing when we'll meet again, I'd appreciate some small bit of advice."

The abbot's toothless mouth let out its familiar crackling laugh. "Don't you understand
yet?"
he asked. "That you're too strong is the only thing I have to teach you. If you continue to pride yourself on your strength, you won't live to see thirty. Why, you might easily have been killed today. Think about that, and decide how to conduct yourself in the future."

Musashi was silent.

"You accomplished something today, but it was not well done, not by a long shot. Since you're still young, I can't really blame you, but it's a grave error to think the Way of the Samurai consists of nothing but a show of strength.

"But then, I tend to have the same fault, so I'm not really qualified to speak to you on the subject. You should study the way that Yagyū Sekishūsai and Lord Kōizumi of Ise have lived. Sekishūsai was my teacher, Lord Kōizumi was his. If you take them as your models and try to follow the path they have followed, you may come to know the truth."

When Nikkan's voice ceased, Musashi, who had been staring at the ground, deep in thought, looked up. The old priest had already vanished.

The Koyagyū Fief

Yagyū Valley lies at the foot of Mount Kasagi, northeast of Nara. In the early seventeenth century, it was the site of a prosperous little community, too large to be described as a mere village, yet not populous or bustling enough to be called a town. It might naturally have been called Kasagi Village, but instead its inhabitants referred to their home as the Kambe Demesne, a name inherited from the bygone age of the great privately owned manorial estates.

In the middle of the community stood the Main House, a castle that served as both a symbol of governmental stability and the cultural center of the region. Stone ramparts, reminiscent of ancient fortresses, surrounded the Main House. The people of the area, as well as their lord's ancestors, had been comfortably settled there since the tenth century, and the present ruler was a country squire in the best tradition, who spread culture among his subjects and was at all times prepared to protect his territory with his life. At the same time, however, he carefully avoided any serious involvement in the wars and feuds of his fellow lords in other districts. In short, it was a peaceful fief, governed in an enlightened manner.

Here one saw no traces of the depravity or degeneracy associated with footloose samurai; it was quite unlike Nara, where ancient temples celebrated in history and folklore were being left to go to seed. Disruptive elements simply were not permitted to enter into the life of this community.

The setting itself militated against ugliness. The mountains in the Kasagi Range were no less strikingly beautiful at eventide than at sunrise, and the water was pure and clean—ideal water, it was said, for making tea. The plum blossoms of Tsukigase were nearby, and nightingales sang from the season of the melting snow to that of the thunderstorms, their tones as crystal clear as the waters of the mountain streams.

A poet once wrote that "in the place where a hero is born, the mountains and rivers are fresh and clear." If no hero had been born in Yagyū Valley, the poet's words would have been empty; but this was indeed a birthplace of heroes. No better proof could be offered than the lords of Yagyū themselves. In this great house even the retainers were men of nobility. Many had come from the rice fields, distinguished themselves in battle, and gone on to become loyal and competent aides.

Yagyū Muneyoshi Sekishūsai, now that he'd retired, had taken up residence in a small mountain house some distance behind the Main House. He no longer showed any interest in local government, and had no idea who was in direct control at the moment. He had a number of capable sons and grandsons, as well as trustworthy retainers to assist and guide them, and he was safe in assuming that the people were being as well governed as they had been when he was in charge.

When Musashi arrived in this district, about ten days had passed since the battle on Hannya Plain. On the way he had visited some temples, Kasagidera and Jōruriji, where he'd seen relics of the Kemmu era. He put up at the local inn with the intention of relaxing for a time, physically and spiritually.

Dressed informally, he went out one day for a walk with Jōtarō. "It's amazing," said Musashi, his eyes roving over the crops in the fields and the farmers going about their work. "Amazing," he repeated several times.

Finally Jōtarō asked, "What's amazing?" For him, the most amazing thing was the way Musashi was talking to himself.

"Since leaving Mimasaka, I've been in Settsu, Kawachi and Izumi provinces, Kyoto and Nara, and I've never seen a place like this."

"Well, so what? What's so different about it?"

"For one thing, there are lots of trees in the mountains here."

Jōtarō laughed. "Trees? There are trees everywhere. Well, aren't there?"

"Yes, but here it's different. All the trees in Yagyū are old. That means there haven't been any wars here, no enemy troops burning or cutting down the forests. It also means there haven't been any famines, at least for a long, long time."

"That's all?"

"No. The fields are green too, and the new barley has been well trampled to strengthen the roots and make it grow well. Listen! Can't you hear the sound of spinning wheels? It seems to be coming from every house. And haven't you noticed that when travelers in fine clothing pass by, the farmers don't look at them enviously?"

"Anything else?"

"As you can see, there are many young girls working the fields. This means that the district is well off, that life is normal here. The children are growing up healthy, the old people are treated with due respect, and the young men and women aren't running off to live uncertain lives in other places. It's a safe bet that the lord of the district is wealthy, and that the swords and guns in his armory are kept polished and in the best condition."

"I don't see anything so interesting in all that," complained Jōtarō. "Hmm, I don't imagine you would."

"Anyway, you didn't come here to admire the scenery. Aren't you going to fight the samurai in the House of Yagyū?"

"Fighting isn't all there is to the Art of War. The men who think that way, and are satisfied to have food to eat and a place to sleep, are mere vagabonds. A serious student is much more concerned with training his mind and disciplining his spirit than with developing martial skills. He has to learn about all sorts of things—geography, irrigation, the people's feelings, their manners and customs, their relationship with the lord of their territory. He wants to know what goes on inside the castle, not just what goes on outside it. He wants, essentially, to go everywhere he can and learn everything he can."

Musashi realized this lecture probably meant little to Jōtarō, but he felt it necessary to be honest with the child and not give him halfway answers. He showed no impatience at the boy's many questions, and as they walked along, he continued to give thoughtful and serious replies.

After they had seen what there was to see of the exterior of Koyagyū Castle, as the Main House was properly known, and taken a good look all around the valley, they started back to the inn.

There was only one inn, but it was a large one. The road was a section of the Iga highroad, and many people making pilgrimages to the Jōruriji or Kasagidera stayed the night here. In the evening, ten or twelve packhorses were always to be found tied to the trees near the entrance or under the front eaves.

The maid who followed them to their room asked, "Have you been out for a walk?" In her mountain-climbing trousers, she might have been mistaken for a boy, were it not for her girl's red obi. Without waiting for an answer, she said, "You can take your bath now, if you like."

Musashi started for the bathroom, while Jōtarō, sensing that here was a new friend of his own age, asked, "What's your name?"

"I don't know," answered the girl.

"You must be crazy if you don't know your own name."

"It's Kocha."

"That's a funny name." Jōtarō laughed.

"What's funny about it?" demanded Kocha, striking him with her fist.

"She hit me!" yelled Jōtarō.

From the folded clothing on the floor of the anteroom, Musashi knew there were other people in the bath. He took off his own clothes and opened the door into the steamy bathroom. There were three men, talking jovially, but catching sight of his brawny body, they stopped as though a foreign element had been introduced into their midst.

Musashi slipped into the communal bath with a contented sigh, his six-foot frame causing the hot water to overflow. For some reason, this startled the three men, and one of them looked straight at Musashi, who had leaned his head against the edge of the pool and closed his eyes.

Gradually they took up their conversation where they had left off. They were washing themselves outside the pool; the skin on their backs was white and their muscles pliant. They were apparently city people, for their manner of speech was polished and urbane.

"What was his name—the samurai from the House of Yagyū?"

"I think he said it was Shōda Kizaemon."

"If Lord Yagyū sends a retainer to convey a refusal to a match, he can't be as good as he's said to be."

"According to Shōda, Sekishūsai's retired and never fights anyone anymore. Do you suppose that's the truth, or was he just making it up?"

"Oh, I don't think it's true. It's much more likely that when he heard the second son of the House of Yoshioka was challenging him, he decided to play it safe."

"Well, he was tactful at least, sending fruit and saying he hoped we'd enjoy our stopover."

Yoshioka? Musashi lifted his head and opened his eyes. Having overheard someone mention Denshichirō's trip to Ise while he was at the Yoshioka School, Musashi assumed that the three men were on their way back to Kyoto. One of them must be Denshichirō. Which one?

"I don't have much luck with baths," thought Musashi ruefully. "First Osugi tricked me into taking a bath, and now, again with no clothes on, I run into one of the Yoshiokas. He's bound to have heard of what happened at the school. If he knew my name was Miyamoto, he'd be out that door and back with his sword in no time."

But the three paid him no attention. To judge from their talk, as soon as they had arrived they had sent a letter to the House of Yagyū. Apparently Sekishūsai had had some connection with Yoshioka Kempō back in the days when Kempō was tutor to the shōguns. No doubt because of this, Sekishūsai could not let Kempō's son go away without acknowledging his letter and had therefore sent Shōda to pay a courtesy call at the inn.

In response to this, the best these city youths could say was that Sekishūsai was "tactful," that he had decided to "play it safe," and that he couldn't be "as good as he's said to be." They seemed exceedingly satisfied with themselves, but Musashi thought them ridiculous. In contrast to what he had seen of Koyagyū Castle and the enviable state of the area's inhabitants, they appeared to have nothing better to offer than clever conversation.

It reminded him of a saying about the frog at the bottom of a well, unable to see what was going on in the outside world. Sometimes, he was thinking, it works the other way around. These pampered young sons of Kyoto were in a position to see what was happening at the center of things and to know what was going on everywhere, but it would not have occurred to them that while they were watching the great open sea, somewhere else, at the bottom of a deep well, a frog was steadily growing larger and stronger. Here in Koyagyū, well away from the country's political and economic center, sturdy samurai had for decades been leading a healthy rural life, preserving the ancient virtues, correcting their weak points and growing in stature.

With the passage of time, Koyagyū had produced Yagyū Muneyoshi, a great master of the martial arts, and his son Lord Munenori of Tajima, whose prowess had been recognized by Ieyasu himself. And there were also Muneyoshi's older sons, Gorōzaemon and Toshikatsu, famous throughout the land for their bravery, and his grandson Hyōgo Toshitoshi, whose prodigious feats had earned him a highly paid position under the renowned general Katō Kiyomasa of Higo. In fame and prestige, the House of Yagyū did not rank with the House of Yoshioka, but in terms of ability, the difference was a thing of the past. Denshichirō and his companions were blind to their own arrogance. Musashi, nevertheless, felt a little sorry for them.

He went over to a corner where water was piped into the room. Undoing his headband, he seized a handful of clay and began scrubbing his scalp. For the first time in many weeks, he treated himself to the luxury of a good shampoo.

In the meantime, the men from Kyoto were finishing their bath. "Ah, that felt good."

"Indeed it did. Now why don't we have some girls in to pour our sake for us?"

"Splendid idea! Splendid!"

The three finished drying themselves and left. After a thorough wash and another soak in the hot water, Musashi too dried off, tied up his hair, and went back to his room. There he found the boyish-looking Kocha in tears.

"What happened to you?"

"It's that boy of yours, sir. Look where he hit me!"

"That's a lie!" Jōtarō cried angrily from the opposite corner.

Musashi was about to scold him, but Jōtarō protested, "The dope said you were weak!"

"That's not true. I didn't."

"You did too!"

"Sir, I didn't say you or anybody else was weak. This brat started bragging about how you were the greatest swordsman in the country, because you'd killed dozens of rōnin at Hannya Plain, and I said there wasn't anybody in Japan better with the sword than the lord of this district, and then he started slapping me on the cheeks."

Musashi laughed. "I see. He shouldn't have done that, and I'll give him a good scolding. I hope you'll forgive us. Jō!" he said sternly.

"Yes, sir," said the boy, still sulking.

"Go take a bath!"

"I don't like to take baths."

"Neither do I," Musashi lied. "But you, you're so sweaty you stink." "I'll go swimming in the river tomorrow morning."

The boy was becoming more and more stubborn as he grew more accustomed to Musashi, but Musashi did not really mind. In fact, he rather liked this side of Jōtarō. In the end, the boy did not go to the bath.

Before long Kocha brought the dinner trays. They ate in silence, Jōtarō and the maid glaring at each other, while she served the meal.

Musashi was preoccupied with his private objective of meeting Sekishūsai. Considering his own lowly status, perhaps this was asking too much, but maybe, just maybe, it was possible.

"If I'm going to match arms with anybody," thought Musashi, "it should be with somebody strong. It's worth risking my life to see whether I can overcome the great Yagyū name. There's no use in following the Way of the Sword if I haven't the courage to try."